


The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

by reginalds



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24079762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginalds/pseuds/reginalds
Summary: “What’s there to talk about?” Quentin asked blandly, picking up a handful of butter packets and creamers to build a small tower.Eliot coughed awkwardly, and a basket of peaches and plums appeared on the table between them.“Dear god, end me now,” Eliot said loudly, after a moment of stunned silence. He picked up a fork and tried to stab himself in the neck with it. Tried, because it turned into a tangle of gummy worms in his hands before it could pierce his carotid, or bruise his windpipe, or whatever it was he was trying to do.“Uh.” Quentin said, unsure whether to stare at the gummy worms or the peaches and plums, or Eliot’s furious, embarrassed face.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104
Collections: Safe Home 2020





	The Restaurant at the End of the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Expanding my series of multi-fandom one-shots about characters stuck in place with a story about Eliot and Quentin inspired by Douglas Adams, to whom the idea of a restaurant at the end of the universe belongs. This story flies in the face of all canon, and is set somewhat fuzzily during season 3 of The Magicians, after the mosaic, before the Monster. I hope it brings you some joy in these uncertain times, and that you are taking good care of yourselves. 
> 
> Epigraph is from e e cummings' poem 'pity this busy monster, manunkind.'

_listen: there's a hell  
_ _of a good universe next door; let's go  
_

e e cummings

All Quentin Coldwater knew was that one moment he was standing in Fillory, and the next moment his stomach swooped with a sharp sensation of vertigo, and he was flat on his back on a cold floor, looking up at an unfamiliar ceiling. It smelled like apricots and gunpowder, which smelled like big, serious magic, and he knew that something had gone very, very, _very_ wrong.

He wriggled one ankle and then the other, twisting his head from side to side to see if anything was broken. In the long, dark teatime of his soul he could feel himself panicking, and he clenched his fists and tried to remember what all the therapists he’d ever spoken to had told him: deep breaths from the belly, in through his mouth and out through his nose. He was halfway through his third set of wheezing breaths, when there was a popping, tearing sound like the universe was splitting itself apart at the seams, and then:

“Oh my god, _cheese fries_?!” 

Quentin sat up.

He was in a diner. There were half a dozen booths upholstered in shining red and white vinyl, a long counter with a cash register at one end and a glass case full of pie at the other, and a window to the kitchen, which was emitting metallic clattering sounds and all sorts of good smells. It looked like every twenty-four hour diner he’d ever driven to in Connecticut, with chrome plating on the outside, and friendly Greek staff hocking burgers and milkshakes, baklava and waxy mints on the inside.

And there was Eliot, looking poised at one of the tables, and investigating a plate of cheese fries. He didn’t look at all alarmed by the fact that they were in Fillory twenty seconds ago, and now appeared to be in an empty diner, or by the fact that Quentin was on the ground wheezing his way through a panic attack.

“Hey, Q,” Eliot said, picking up a cheese fry, and Quentin hated the way his eyes automatically tracked the movements of Eliot’s elegant wrists and long fingers. He had a searing flash of memories from the time when they grew old and in love together, and shuddered, gritting his teeth and pushing everything as far back into his subconscious as it would go.

“Do you think if I eat cheese fries in a pocket universe I’ll gain any weight?” Eliot asked idly, and Quentin took another minute to practice his breathing and then heaved himself off the floor and into the booth across from Eliot.

“Are we in a pocket universe?” He asked gloomily. “We were in Fillory. I was with you and Margo. I… shit.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “I think I drank a daquiri Margo made for me.”

Eliot hummed, and ate a cheese fry. “Yeah, you should never do that.”

“She said it was passion-fruit flavored,” Quentin groaned. “I’ve never had passion-fruit before.” He put his head down on the table and banged it once. When he banged it again, for show, Eliot patted him condescendingly on the back of the neck, and his fingers lingered, just a little bit.

“Hang on, why are you here?” Quentin asked, looking up at Eliot and narrowing his eyes. “Did you drink a daquiri, too?”

“Definitely not,” Eliot said, waving a hand airily. “I’m here because, you know….” He blinked and looked sharply away from Quentin. “Actually, I can’t remember.” He shifted, slightly nervously as Quentin studied him. “The cheese fries are great,” Eliot said, after a long moment of awkward silence. “You want some?”

Quentin watched him fidget for another minute, then sighed, deciding to let Eliot have his secrets. “Yeah, okay,” he said, and took a handful, hiding his smile when Eliot yelped and swatted at his hands.

“Not all of them, you fucker,” Eliot groused. “Get your own cheese fries.”

“I could go for a burger, actually,” Quentin said. “Do you think they’d make me a cheeseburger and a milkshake?”

“Worth a try,” Eliot said, pulling the plate of cheese fries towards him, and wrapping a protective arm around the rest. “Knock yourself out.”

Quentin stood and looked around the diner, trying to put his finger on what exactly felt so weird about the place. On the surface it was perfectly normal, but there was something about the way the corners of the room blurred and shimmered when he turned his head too quickly that made everything feel off. He made his way towards the counter, and was halfway there when he noticed the front door. He paused.

Could it be that easy to get back? Back to Fillory, back to whatever passed for normalcy, away from Eliot’s hands and the way he was lounging indecently in the vinyl booth.

Clenching his teeth, Quentin turned towards the door. He flung it open so emphatically he nearly smacked himself in the face with it, and then had to catch himself on the doorframe before he stepped out and fell into what looked like actual, literal space.

Eliot was there all of a sudden, with warm hands on Quentin’s waist and shoulder, pulling him solidly back into the diner and holding him in place as they both stared out the door.

“What kind of Douglas Adams bullshit is this?” Eliot muttered, and Quentin laughed weakly, and tried not to blink, in case it all disappeared. It was spectacular: the velvety blackness of space, and the shimmering oranges and blues of a slowly rotating galaxy to their left. The deep black was pocked with millions of silvery stars, all twinkling and blue-bright against the darkness.

“The sky looked like that in Indiana sometimes,” Eliot said quietly. “If you happened to drive away from the city and walk into a corn field to get drunk and laid in the middle of the night.”

Quentin laughed quietly. “My dad sent me to a sleepaway camp in the Catskills when I was little,” he said. “I hated it, I was the worst camper, but I got up one night to use the outhouse and saw the stars over the lake and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I sat outside all night and then fell asleep in a blueberry bush and the counselors’ called my parents and the local authorities in the morning when they couldn’t find me. They thought I’d been kidnapped. Or drowned.”

Behind him, Eliot dropped his head onto Quentin’s shoulders, shaking helplessly with laughter. “Q, oh my _god_.”

“Shut up,” Quentin said, and elbowed him in the ribs. He moved back from the door reluctantly, and closed it slowly. “Should we open the shades on the windows?”

“Definitely,” Eliot said, and gave him a rare, full smile as they moved around the diner, crawling into each booth to crank up the screens. The light in the diner changed as they did so, becoming softer and brighter. When all the screens were up Quentin settled onto one of the stools at the counter, and bit down on his smile when Eliot collected his plate of cheese fries and joined him.

There was still vague, discordant clanging coming from the kitchen and Quentin leaned forward tentatively. “Could I get a cheeseburger please?” He called, and the noise coming from the kitchen stopped, and then they both flinched backwards when the face of what was very definitely an alien popped into view through the window. It had blue skin, and purplish dreadlocks swept over one broad shoulder, and was both beautiful and terrifying. A little like Margo, but blue.

“Of course, sugar,” the alien said, while they gaped at it. “You want American cheese on that?”

“Um.” Quentin said, pressing his shoulder against Eliot’s as hard as he could, and groping for his hand when Eliot pressed back silently. “Cheddar?”

“Comin’ right up. You want anything to drink with that?”

“Milkshake?” Quentin ventured, and squeaked when the alien smiled warmly and their teeth were a little sharp.

“Vanilla or chocolate, baby?” The alien asked.

“Vanilla?” Quentin whispered, and they smiled again.

“You got it. You want anything, sweetheart?” They asked, turning to Eliot, who gulped and elbowed Quentin in the gut when he laughed.

“Black coffee?”

“I’ll bring it on over, you boys take a seat.”

They walked back over to the booth Eliot had chosen when they first arrived in the pocket universe, and sat quietly for a while, staring at each other with wide eyes.

“Are we hallucinating?” Eliot asked, still staring, when the sizzle of frying meat and strains of some meandering alien music drifted out of the kitchen. “Did Margo dose us with something?”

“You’d know better than I would,” Quentin said, and then extended an arm. “Maybe we’re dreaming. Pinch me.” Eliot did, without hesitation, and Quentin yelped and slapped at his hand. “Ow! Not that hard!” Eliot slapped him back, and they were slapping at each other over the table when the alien said mildly:

“Here’s your black coffee, sugar.”

Quentin stopped fighting after getting in one final kick, and pushed his hair out of his eyes, risking a glance down at the alien’s legs as he did so. They had on a little uniform with a white apron and wide lapels, but instead of legs they had a roiling mass of smoke dotted with sparkling colors that looked not unlike the nebulas and galaxies outside of the window. They had a little nametag, too, but instead of any name Quentin recognized it was a series of incomprehensible symbols that gave him a headache when he tried to read them.

“Thank you,” Eliot said solemnly, accepting the cup of coffee from their alien’s blue fingers.

“You’re very welcome,” the alien said warmly, smiling at Eliot with their sharp teeth. “Your burger and shake will be out next,” they told Quentin, and disappeared off into the kitchen.

“This is very, very weird.” Eliot said, watching them go. He raised the cup and took a sip of coffee, then shrugged and slumped back into the seat. “Good coffee, though.”

The burger was good too: medium rare with a slice of fresh tomato and crispy lettuce and melty cheese. The shake was sublime, creamy and sweet and Quentin unwisely offered Eliot a taste and then had to suffer through watching him suck a third of the shake up through the straw.

When they were done eating the alien waiter cleared their plates away and disappeared again into the kitchen. They played a game where they flicked a sugar packet back and forth for a while, and then, tired, lay down on the table itself, side by side.

Quentin tried not to think about the way they used to lie on the mosaic, watching the moon rise above the trees, but it was hard. Eliot smelled good, even in this pocket universe, even after eating a huge plate of cheese fries and some of Quentin’s milkshake: a little smoky and musky, and Quentin closed his eyes tight and tried his best to ignore the aching of his stupid heart.

They’d talked a little bit, after the whole thing at the mosaic. The whole thing where they fell in love and lived their lives together and then arrived back in the world like nothing had even happened. Like all that time that had meant so much had been scrubbed from existence. But when they talked about it Eliot had blown it off, and that had been the goddamn worst. Quentin still had heartburn whenever he thought about it, so he mostly tried not to.

They fell asleep, eventually, side by side on the plasticky tabletop, with Eliot’s curls pressed up against the salt and pepper shakers. They turned towards each other while they slept, the way they used to, and Eliot’s face was slack and beautiful in sleep when Quentin startled awake in the middle of the night after a nightmare he couldn’t remember. He flailed, quietly, and Eliot wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close, tucking Quentin’s head below his chin, and he was so warm and solid that Quentin didn’t even panic, just squeezed his eyes shut, and enjoyed the way they fit together.

He lay awake for a long time with his eyes closed, listening to Eliot’s heart thud in his chest, and let his own heart ache for what could have been. He fell asleep again eventually, and woke up to the smell of eggs frying and Eliot trying to quietly disentangle himself from Quentin, who had clutched him tight while sleeping.

“Uh.” Quentin said, and Eliot froze, looking so immediately guilty that Quentin’s stomach soured, and he sat up, shoving Eliot away a little too forcefully, so that Eliot rolled off the table entirely, banging his knee loudly on the edge as he fell onto the seat and then the floor.

“Oh, shit,” Quentin said, and scrambled off the table, flushing when their alien waiter poked their head out of the kitchen.

“Everything okay, sugars?” They asked, and Quentin nodded and stuck his head under the table, where Eliot blinked at him and massaged his shoulder.

“I probably deserved that,” Eliot said pensively. “I’m clingy when I sleep.”

“I know,” Quentin said, too honest by far, and bit his lip when Eliot stared at him with wide eyes. He thought, for a wild, terrible, wonderful moment, that Eliot might kiss him. They’d both slept in their clothes, and Eliot looked undone: his shirt untucked and rumpled, twisted across his chest.

“How do you like your eggs, sweets?” The alien waitress called, and they both startled way from their weird state of almost-kissing. Flushing again, Quentin extricated himself from under the table, and sat on his side of the booth, tugging his hoodie over his hands and then tucking his hands into his sleeves and folding them on his lap. Eliot did the same a moment later, looking as strangely flushed and disoriented as Quentin felt.

“Over medium,” Quentin called, turning to the alien waiter instead of staring at Eliot, who was a weird kind of black hole that you could fall into over and over again, with his eyes and his wrists, and his elegant, stupid face with the soft mouth that broke your heart. Especially if you knew what it was like to kiss it, not just once, but over and over again over the course of a lifetime that no longer existed, except in their memories.

“Coffee,” Eliot said, abruptly. “I need a giant fucking pot of coffee.”

“Homefries and bacon,” Quentin added, and then, “Hey, do you have a name?”

“I’m fairly sure you wouldn’t be able to pronounce it, sugar,” their alien waiter said, smiling indulgently. “You could call me Blythe though, if you want?”

“Blythe,” Eliot said faintly. “Blythe, is there coffee?”

“Coming right up, sweetie,” Blythe said, and floated out of the kitchen on their cloud of black smoke holding a coffee pot and two mugs. “You want some breakfast, too? We got a real nice special, if you’re interested. Eggs benedict on homemade English muffins. I do the hollandaise myself.”

“Sounds great,” Eliot said, staring deeply into his coffee, then Blythe’s eyes, then out across the rest of the diner. Anywhere but at Quentin.

“How did you sleep?” Quentin asked tentatively. Eliot grunted.

“Sorry about knocking you off the table,” he offered, and Eliot took an enormous sip of coffee and then spluttered, spilling it all over the table as he coughed. Quentin waited patiently until he stopped coughing, and then longer still, but Eliot didn’t say anything, and it seemed like they weren’t going to talk about falling asleep next to each other for the first time since he’d solved the mosaic and Margo had brought them back to what was now the real world.

“How long do you think she’ll keep us here?” Eliot asked, twisting restlessly in his seat and looking at Blythe in the kitchen, and then at the slowly rotating galaxies outside, and then his own fingers drumming tirelessly on the tabletop.

“Forever?” Quentin suggested, and Eliot laughed humorlessly, taking another long sip of coffee. Rolling his eyes, Quentin picked up a packet of Splenda from the little plastic tub and flicked it back and forth across his knuckles, making it disappear into his palm and reappear between the fingers of his other hand. He practiced the trick over and over, pausing when he felt Eliot’s eyes on him. He smiled a little, and ducked his chin to hide it, as he moved his fingers to flick the packet into the air and snatch it from midair in front of Eliot’s nose. He closed his fist around it and then opened both empty palms in a showy gesture that made Eliot chuckle reluctantly.

“Now you see it,” Quentin muttered, slipping the packet from his sleeve to the palm of his hand….  
  
“And now you don’t,” Eliot said, startling him by sweeping his palms over Quentin’s. He did a quick, pretty little tut, and there was a pop as the sugar packet disappeared from their reality.

Quentin grinned, pleased as always to be able to play around with magic, outside of school, and away from monsters. Eliot smiled back at him, a little hesitantly, and cleared his throat roughly when Blythe approached loaded with plates of food.

They unloaded the plates onto the table with a smile, poured more coffee, and demurred with a sharp smile when Eliot invited them to join for a meal.

Quentin was hungry, in a way he hadn’t been since he’d lived with Eliot and worked all day to keep a home and solve the mosaic. He dug into his eggs greedily, darting glances at Eliot occasionally, their hands meeting once or twice in the middle of the table when they reached for salt or sugar or hot sauce at the same time.

When they were done, Blythe appeared again with yet more coffee and swept the plates off the table, leaving them with mugs and a loaded silence.

“I bet,” Eliot said finally, running a long finger around the rim of his mug. “I bet that she wants us to talk. I bet she won’t let us out of this fucking place until we expose our fucking souls to each other.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Quentin asked blandly, picking up a handful of butter packets and creamers to build a small tower.

Eliot coughed awkwardly, and a basket of peaches and plums appeared on the table between them. 

“Dear _god_ , end me now,” Eliot said loudly, after a moment of stunned silence. He picked up a fork and tried to stab himself in the neck with it. Tried, because it turned into a tangle of gummy worms in his hands before it could pierce his carotid, or bruise his windpipe, or whatever it was he was trying to do. 

“Uh.” Quentin said, unsure whether to stare at the gummy worms or the peaches and plums, or Eliot’s furious, embarrassed face.

“ _Okay_ ,” Eliot said, too loud by far for the otherwise empty diner. “Okay, we’re going to pretend that this never happened.” He swept the basket off the table with one long arm, an elegant gesture, as always, and he screeched a little bit when the peaches and plums didn’t actually fall to the ground and roll away, but instead floated up into the air and arranged themselves in a heart.

“Uh.” Quentin said again, watching as Eliot shoved his hands into his own hair and _pulled_. “Kind of insulting that you literally tried to _murder_ yourself when Margo’s fucked-up pocket universe put my big stupid crush out there, but go off, I guess?"

It was, very suddenly, absolutely quiet, and the peaches and plums hit the floor, thumping on the polished tile softly as they rolled away. “I’m sorry.” Eliot said, sounding strangled. “ _What?_ ”

“I am still in love with you!” Quentin yelled, flinging his hands in the air in resignation. “Is that what Margo’s doing? Locking us in a pocket universe for the rest of our lives while you go crazy and hate everything and I can’t do anything but think about how much I’m in love with you and how good you smell?”

“What?!” Eliot shouted back. “What… _Quentin_.” He took a long shuddering breath and passed a shaking hand over his eyes. “Quentin,” he repeated. “ _What._ ” 

On the table between them, the butter packets tumbled out of the tower Quentin had been building and flew around the table, arranging themselves into the words: TOLD YA, BITCH.

“Oh,” Eliot said. “My. God. Not _now_ , Bambi.” He swept the table clear, again, and it worked this time.

Quentin turned to watch his building materials go flying through the air, only looking back when Eliot grabbed his hands, and pulled them over the table towards him, pressing them tightly against his lips.  
  
“Quentin,” he said. “Q. _Q!_ What the fuck!”

“What the fuck yourself,” Quentin grumbled, flexing his fingers a little against Eliot’s mouth. “Want to explain to me what’s happening, exactly?” Eliot bowed his head instead, and put his forehead down on the table.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he says. “Jesus, I’m a real fucking idiot. She is never going to let me live this down. Quentin, _god_. I.” He stuttered, and stilled, then sat up and looked at Quentin. “I can’t even say it. God, I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” He laughed, and stared back down at their hands on the table, fiercely. “I mean it so much I can’t even say it.”

“Say what?” Quentin asked, frowning.

“I’m sorry I tried to murder myself out of this conversation just then,” Eliot said, a little desperately. “I didn’t mean it the way you think I meant it.”

“Okay, sure.” Quentin said. “I don’t understand anything that is happening. Blythe? Can I have a slice of pie?”

“Pumpkin or apple, sweetie?” Blythe called, and Eliot laughed a little in a way that sounded physically painful. He squeezed Quentin’s fingers tight and then let go to contort his own into a complicated tut. As Quentin watched, the sugar canister lifted into the air and spilled its contents across the table-top, where large letters spelled out I LOVE YOU QUENTIN COLDWATER.

“You.” Quentin said faintly, “What?”

“Peaches and plums, motherfucker,” Eliot said, and then, so quietly it was nearly inaudible. “I have never loved anyone like I love you.”

“But,” Quentin said, staring at the sugar on the table. “But. We talked. After the… you know. I asked if you wanted to try, and you said --.”

“I know what I said, and I think we’ve established that I’m a fucking idiot,” Eliot said, and then looked up wearily when Blythe approached. “Hi Blythe.”

“Hi sweetie,” Blythe said warmly. “Apple pie a la mode.” They put down two plates, and studied the words in the sugar for a moment, then patted Eliot fondly on the shoulder. “That’s nice, honey.”

“Eliot,” Quentin said urgently as Blythe floated away. “Eliot, you said --.”

“I know what I said! And I regret what I said, and I thought you hated me because I was a real fucking asshole about it.” Eliot said, wincing. “And I was fucking lying, okay? I was really fucking scared, and I was lying because it was the easy way out of being so scared, but it didn’t work because I’m in love with you. You’re really fucking scary, you know?”

Quentin looked down at himself, at his creased jeans, and his oversized hoodie covering the scars up and down his arms. “I am the least scary person I know,” he said blankly.

“You’re really not, Q,” Eliot said, pressing his hands against his face. “You’re so goddamn sweet, and you try so goddamn hard, and you’re so goddamn beautiful I can’t fucking handle it. And I am in love with you, you idiot, and it scares the shit out of me.”

“So….” Quentin said slowly, staring at the message in the sugar, and then the scattered basket of peaches and plums, and then at Eliot, who was still hiding behind his own hands. “God, we’re pretty fucked up, aren’t we?” He asked, and Eliot laughed hollowly. “Margo had to literally build a restaurant at the end of the universe and shove us into it before we talked about our feelings. And I’m only… 75% convinced that this isn’t a dream.”

“Want me to pinch you?” Eliot asked, offering up a small smile, and then a larger one when Quentin grinned back.

“I wouldn’t say no to a kiss,” Quentin ventured, and his heart fluttered when Eliot swept his hair out of his eyes and stood up from his side of the table and scooted into Quentin’s side, pressing close and laughing softly when Quentin pressed back. He slipped his fingers beneath Quentin’s hair, curling them around the back of his neck, and smiled softly when Quentin shivered, pressing closer and closer until their lips met. Quentin shivered again, and Eliot lifted his other hand to cup the back of Quentin’s head, holding him safe and still and kissing him thoroughly.

“Don’t let that pie get cold, sweeties,” Blythe called from the kitchen, with laughter in their voice, and Eliot drew back slowly, smiling when Quentin put his arms around his neck like they were slow-dancing.

“Pie now, talk later?” Eliot whispered, and Quentin laughed and nodded. They jostled over forks and Eliot wiped at Quentin’s chin when he dripped ice cream down it. The pie was crispy on top with caramelized sugar, the crust flaky with butter, and the apples tart and sweet. They got distracted by kissing halfway through their slices of pie, and Eliot pushed the plates out of the way and pushed Quentin onto his back on the table, pulling at his clothes and shoving cold hands beneath his shirt to make Quentin squeak.

They were half undressed, with Quentin on his back on the table and Eliot between his legs, when the ceiling of the diner vibrated with a series of crisp knocks.

Quentin froze, and groaned when Eliot lifted his head from between his thighs. “Go away, Bambi,” he shouted at the ceiling. “We’re fucking busy!”

“Oh, is that another guest?” Blythe called, and Quentin nearly rolled off the table in his panic, trying to cover himself up.

“Stay in the kitchen, Blythe!” Eliot yelled, and then sighed. “God, this is a fucking disaster.”

“It’s kind of great though,” Quentin said, staring at him from where he was crouched, half-naked, on the floor of a restaurant at the end of the universe. Eliot raked his fingers through his hair.

“I promise I’ll wine you and dine you like you deserve when we’re back in Fillory,” he said.

“I’m a pretty cheap date,” Quentin said, stretching, and grinning unrepentantly when Eliot’s eyes went wide. “I’ll put out for a cheeseburger.”

“Stop talking,” Eliot told him, and Quentin grinned, wild and bright.

“Make me.” He said, and Eliot dove forward to do just that.

_\- fin -_


End file.
